This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Fourteen

(Thursday, October 6th)

“Of course, I have no doubt that all the religious propaganda and mind control his parents and the church were dishing out, played a major role in his death. To give you an idea of what was going on, Pastor Finster not only wanted us to make book reports on the Bible, he wanted us to flagellate each other to drive out Satan.”

“While he watched?” Vicky is stupefied. “So, what was the big deal about you guys on the balcony?”

Raphie, taking a drink, snorts and holds his nose. “That would be fellate. Flagellate means to whip.”

“Oh, okay.” Vicky shrugs.

Raph turns serious. “And did you use the whip?”

I shake my head, knowing that gratuitous brutality worries him. “To quote my father, I told the wee fecker to go piss up a rope. But Mack stayed. And, as I was leaving the church, I could hear the sounds of Pastor Finster’s cat of nine tails getting a work out and Mack groaning.”

“That’s gross.” Wanda looks to be close to tears. “Mack was basically a nice guy, I guess. But there was always something about him that made me uncomfortable. The way he looked at me. Of course, I always thought it was a racial thing. But now, I’m not too sure.”

“Masochism had always been part of his sexuality, as far as I know. Our first time, he had me fuck him without any lubrication.” I glance at Raph shaking my head slightly, quickly to indicate that, even though our first time had also been without artificial lubrication, the circumstances had been different.

Upstairs, we hear Raphie’s alarm clock start to buzz. “Eh?” He runs up to our bedroom to shut it off. On his way back down he sounds as if he can’t believe it. “Seven thirty. Anybody want breakfast?”

He’s still at the bottom of the stairs, when there’s a loud banging at the front door. Raphie freezes. I recognize the black-business-suited figure, which reminds me of the signature silhouette of Alfred Hitchcock against the morning sunlight, through the window that looks out onto the front porch. It’s Busby.

“I’ll get it Raphie. It’s my brother.” I’m stiff from sitting and walk slowly to the door. He repeats the banging.

I open the door and hear: “Daniel.”

My brother is the only member of the human race, whom I’ve met so far, who can pronounce my name, as if he is saying ‘Scumbag.’ This is, however, a talent I need not cultivate, since his name is Busby. No matter how you pronounce it, it sounds like an insult.

When he was born, our mother refused to let her first born have an Irish first name. So, he got lumbered with her maiden name. Maybe that’s the reason he is the way he is.

“May I come in?” Busby asks formally.

Raphaël gestures graciously. “Please, do.”

He ignores Raph and steps just inside the doorway. “We have to talk. Alone.”

“You can talk in front of everyone here. They’re family, or soon will be.”

“Ah, yes. My mother told me that Dad has sort of adopted, uh...”

“The darky?” Raph fills in the blank. Busby looks defeated. This may well be the only time, where I’ll have a chance to witness this reaction on him. But he regains composure quickly.

“I meant my fiancé. Would you like to meet her?” I offer, motioning toward the dining table.

He dutifully strides toward the white girl, opening his arms, when I have to redirect him. This moment is priceless. I wish I had a home-movie camera. “No, Busby, that’s Vicky, Raphaël’s girlfriend.” He looks delightfully helpless. “May I present Wanda Brown, your future sister-in-law?”

It was only visible for a split second, but we all saw it. The moment where Busby, the lawyer, assures himself that interracial marriages are illegal in Missouri, thus no threat, but then remembers that they are allowed in Kansas. There is that conspicuous split second when ‘Oh shit.’ scrolls across his flabby, self-important face. Although it wasn’t nearly as spectacular as Mother’s mishap with Raphie, it is, nonetheless, enjoyable. And no one can deny that he is indeed Mildred’s son.

“Well then, Wanda.” He clasps her shoulders between his still outstretched hands at arm’s length. “Welcome to the family.”

“Once she gets her BA,” I give him my best isn’t-this-a-brilliant-idea look. “Wanda will be studying law at UMKC. Maybe she can go into practice with you.” I really don’t know which negative emotion, misogyny or Negrophobia, is Busby’s strongest. But right now, it really doesn’t matter.

“So, so?” Busby forces a faint smile, which makes him look nauseous. “We’ll have to look into that, when the time comes. But first of all, we have to discuss Dan’s problem.”

“My problem?”

“My mother--”

I interrupt him with: “--and what happened to our mother?”

He gnarls through his forced smile. “Mother and the Bottemlys are going to ledge a formal complaint about you with the District Attorney’s Office for having had homosexual relations with Mack Bottemly Junior, which may have contributed to his death.”

My bowels feel as if they could spontaneously empty; my head feels light, and my eyesight blurs.

“That is utterly ridiculous.” Raphaël’s voice has an extra edge to it, which we all can identify to be pure contempt, as he jumps into the discussion.

“And how can you be so sure, Mr. Mongrain?” Busby is in despicable-lawyer mode.

“Because I know your brother far better than you do, Mr. Bourke, and he would have told me something that important. Besides, I was a good friend of the deceased and know for a fact, that he was quite the ladies’ man.” The edge in his voice is razor sharp. “I’ll also testify under oath to this effect.”

“And then there’s me, Brother Dear.” Wanda hits him figuratively between the eyes with her white woman’s accent. “Since I know Dan much better than either of you, in the biblical sense, as it were, you can count on my testimony.”

“Oh, d-d-dear…” He starts to stammer but takes a deep breath. “I’m afraid that we have a misunderstanding. I won’t be representing Dan. I’m only advising him, his mother and the Bottemlys. But mainly Mother, since it is her complaint.”

“You are aware, Mr. Bourke, that your mother threatened to kill Dan. She might need something more than just advice. I would imagine, even in modern-day Missouri, that a threat of homicide is a criminal offence.”

“So is an act of homosexuality, a felony, in fact.” Busby says, straightening his back. You could just about hear the words from Leviticus streaming through his mind, being read by his pious, ultra-Baptist wife, Sielya. He smiles condescendingly. “It can get Dan anywhere from two years to life imprisonment.”

Again my bowels threaten to revolt. I clench my cheeks.

Vicky enters from the kitchen with a never-before-seen ‘in-control’ attitude, which I assume she didn’t learn at cheerleading camp. “I have just spoken with Dr. Jennette Volker of Overland Park, and she will be representing Dan.”

“Is Doctor Volker a member of the Missouri Bar?” Busby tries dismissiveness.

Dismissiveness fails; Vicky counters. “Never heard of reciprocity, Counselor? I think even you must be aware of that.” Vicky is amazing; Wanda, Raph and I gawk in disbelief. “But to answer your question, yes, she is.”

“Well, then.” Busby swings his weight toward the door. “Oh, and Dan, it might be advisable to buy a dog to help control your hormones. That’s legal. I’ll be in touch.” Of which I am certain.

We watch through the three windows looking out past the front porch as Busby gets into his brand-new Oldsmobile and drives off. Now, we turn our attention to Vicky.

“Okay Perietta Mason, where did you learn to pull off shit like that?” Wanda would like to know.

“Jenny and I are very close--”

“--how close?” Wanda’s tone is less jovial.

“Not that close, Baby.” Vicky hugs her. “Anyway, I used to practice acting like a lawyer with her when she was in Law School. We would sit in on trials and go home and reenact what we’d seen. As a kid, she was bashful, which I never was, so…”

That understatement along with sleep deprivation generates merriment and Wanda’s comment of: “No, really?”

“Guess some things I learned can be put to practical use.” Vicky sounds as if she’s talking to herself. She then livens up. “What are we going to do today.?”

I yawn and discover that I am dead tired. Raphie puts his head on my shoulder and his arm around my waist. Wanda looks at her watch. “If I go home now, wash and change, I can make my English test in fourth period.”

“I’ll drive you home; you get some clothes, and we can wash at my place. My parents are at work, so we can leave from there.” Vicky’s voice has a lascivious undertone. But then again, that’s nothing out of the ordinary.

We see them off from the front porch. I have the urge to put my arm around Raphie, but resist it, since we now have to appear to be unfalteringly heterosexual in public. At least, we can speak French when others are nearby.

Raphie gives me a lopsided smile. “We can get through this, mon vieux.” He opens the door, and we enter separately.

Once inside, he gently takes my hand and leads me up the stairs. He undresses me and then himself, takes me into the bath, and we wash in the tub with a proper hand shower.

Clouds are restraining the morning sun from shining brightly into the room. He beds me, protected by his love.

The phone’s incessant ringing wakes us shortly after noon. Raphie hurries to answer the extension in Maman’s bedroom. He is speaking English, so it isn’t Maman checking up on us. I distantly hear something about three o’clock, as I drift off again. The bed wobbles under his weight; and I sort of understand that we have a lawyer’s appointment.

When I fully come to my senses, there is a cock slapping my nose. Dark palissandre smelling of morning perspiration and Lifebuoy soap. I take my first lick. It’s salty with a hint of burgundy. Since it is desperately struggling to contain itself within the confines of its own skin and weeping, I take it into my mouth to initiate the ritual of release.

As is becoming usual for sex with Raphie, there isn’t any hurry. He licks under my balls, exploring and discovering the core of my sexual being. I let my fingertips tickle his anus; he gasps and purrs.

I am also on a discovery trip. His erogenous zones are virtually everywhere, only varying in intensity, to judge by his changing muscle tension and vocalized reactions. His body is hairless, except for a small patch of pubic hair, bearing witness to his Osage and Choctaw heritage. His scrotum is tight. His balls descend and retract on both sides of his engorged shaft.

Since I am so close to climax, and my hormones are clearly my master, I try something I have only ever heard of. My tongue enters his virtually hairless hole.

His reaction testifies to extreme pleasure. He jolts and shoots; I spasm and shoot. He sucks in my juices, as if he were dying of thirst. Between gulps, he growls with sexual gratification. His system sends projectiles of semen over the edge of the double bed and onto our clothes on the floor.

Aftershock sets in, and he shoots again with my face fighting the muscles of his cheeks for the right of my tongue to stay in his hole. And then, he goes limp; he seems to lose consciousness.

I panic. “Raph, Raph!” I plead, shaking him, my face now in his. He slowly smiles distantly. “Shit, Raph, I thought you’d died.”

“Hmm, that’s what I thought, too,” he mumbles through an expression of ultimate satisfaction. “and had gone to heaven.”

The doorbell wakes us. He jumps out of bed and throws me a set of sweats from our wrestling team in the East High colors of green and black out of the closet and slides into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. We bound down the stairs, barefoot. He opens the front door and freezes. I see his reaction and think: ‘Cops.’ I move toward the window to get a look.

A stunningly beautiful woman in her mid-twenties with Lauren Bacall hair asks congenially, “Mr. Mongrain?” When he doesn’t react, she adds: “I’m Jennette Volker, Vicky’s cousin.”

“Uh, yes, sorry, please come in.” Raphie blushes and opens the door wider.

“Is there something wrong?” She asks scanning the room, as if she were about to walk into a trap.

“No, nothing, other than the reason you’re here.” He motions toward the dining room with the used glasses, dishes and empty soda-pop bottles still on the table.

We clear the mess away; Dr. Volker sets her briefcase down onto a chair and gets to the first point: “Do you have a problem with a female attorney?”

I look at Raphie, oddly wondering if this woman is really lesbian. Raphie is still blushing as he shakes his head. “Not at all. I was just expecting something more along the lines of a female Busby Bourke.”

As she throws back her head and absolutely enjoys the thought, her laughter becomes contagious. “If I ever get there, please shoot me.” Then it’s her turn to blush. “Oh, god, Dan, I’m sorry. He’s your brother, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry he’s my brother, too.” Her laughter resumes at a somewhat lower pitch and somewhat more apprehensive mood. She is obviously trying to size us up, as well.

However, she is still chuckling as she gets down to business. “If I’m going to represent you, you’ll have to be extremely honest with me. Many people of our persuasion are so used to hiding things, that they don’t tell me everything.

“As your attorney, any and all information you give me is privileged. That means, I may not reveal it to anyone, not to the authorities, not to your parents, not even to a court of law, without your permission. And as long as you’re dealing with me, that means written permission. Are there any preliminary questions?”

“Yes.” My being the brother of one of the most expensive litigators in the state of Missouri prompts me to think about the money involved. “How do you expect me to pay for your services?”

“I don’t.” She smiles sphinx-like to prompt the next question. However, the one I ask, is not the one she expects.

“How do you make a living, then?” This sounds a little on the aggressive side, but the attorneys I know are just short of being obsessed with money. “Overland Park isn’t cheap.”

Again she laughs her enchanted laugh. “Spoken like the little brother of a well-known lawyer.”

I nod, and Raphaël looks at me uncomfortably. So, he poses the expected question. “Okay, who pays you. Just so we’re clear, we’re not selling ourselves into slavery to some old rich fucker, because of this crap. We’ll leave the country first.” This is the first hint Raphaël has given me that he has ever even toyed with the idea.

She immediately recognizes the significance of what Raph is telling her. I am becoming increasingly confident that this isn’t the first time she’s had to deal with problems just like ours. “There are gay defense funds available from very well funded homophile organizations. I have excellent contacts to them. I have no intention of letting anybody take advantage of you - for any reason. I believe Vicky told you that I’m lesbian, didn’t she?”

We both nod. Raph is becoming less tense; he is letting his hostile defense barrier, that he places around me, relax. I am slowly feeling more comfortable. And what she says next cinches the deal. “I think that we can use first names, since that promotes trust and we are, after all, in this together. And something else: can I get a cup of Madame Mongrain’s coffee? Vicky claims that it’s to die for.” We nod and Raphie goes to prepare the coffee maker.

She takes the power of attorney out of her briefcase and gives me the paper to sign. “He is very protective of you.” She states matter-of-factly but almost in a whisper.

I scan over the short document, look up and catch her eye. “And I of him.” Just so that she understands that she’ll have to deal with both of us.

“So Vicky tells me.” She puts the power of attorney back into the manila folder, whips out a yellow legal pad and starts taking notes in stenography. “How long have you been together?”

“Since the second grade.”

“No, I mean intimately.”

Raph answers from the doorway to the kitchen. “Like he said, since the second grade.”

Jennette’s expression has a hint of frustration, so Raphie goes into detail. “In second grade, it was extremely hard to start as the token Negro at a previously all-white, segregated school.” Jennette nods knowingly.

“There were only one to two of us per classroom. And I was the only one in Miss Douchman’s class. All of this took place only a year before her mandatory retirement, which was at seventy in those days.

“So, she was sixty-nine years old and being confronted with forced integration in a previous slave state for the first time in her life.” Raphie comes to the table and rests his weight on his knuckles for emphasis.

“Figure it out; she was born some twenty years after the end of slavery. For all anybody knows, her parents could have been slave owners. So, to put it bluntly, she didn’t give a shit that there was a group of bullies in her class who thought it their god-given right to beat up on me.

Raph stands and straightens his back. “During my second confrontation with the playground mafia, Dan, here,“ He points at me to make sure there is no doubt in our lawyer’s mind. “this very white, white kid, comes to my rescue.” Raphie shakes his head, as if still in disbelief.

“At first, I actually thought he was an albino Negro. This couldn’t be a white kid, I thought. But his hair was too straight and his nose too long and pointy.” He chuckles and runs his hand over my buzz cut.

“Anyway, he mopped the red-brick playground with that Italian kid’s face, put one of the kids who were holding me down into the hospital when he kicked him in the face and broke his jaw.” Raphie now uses his fingers to enumerate my deeds. “He beat the shit out of the Principal, threatened to break the school nurse’s neck if she touched me, and wouldn’t even let his own mother near me, when he took me home for safe keeping.”

He takes a deep breath, and his eyes start to water. “And he did all of this without going into a rage. He wasn’t angry; he didn’t lose control. He was just doing what he thought was right, as he told the police when the principal called the cops to get things under control.

“But the cool part is that this man has never, ever made me feel that I owe him anything. He’s just always here for me, and I for him.” He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Like Joey, Dan’s father,” Raphie sniffs. “puts it: it was never a matter of if, it was just a matter of when our relationship would evolve into an intimate physical one. But love and commitment have always been there.”

“Goodness.” She clears her throat. “And what was your reaction to Dan’s relationship to Mack?”

“Looking back, I think I knew that something sexual was going on between them. I even had dreams about them having sex, which I dismissed because they were just dreams. But there were some things about myself that I couldn’t admit, at the time. Growing up on the East Side of Kansas City isn’t very conducive to recognizing that you have sexual needs, much less that you’re queer.”

“Do you choose to use the word, queer?” She uses her soothing voice.

“And you studied psychology" I vocalize what is running through my mind. "before you went into law, didn’t you?" I pause. "Probably to get over your own shyness.”

“Did Vicky tell you that? Or are you psychic?” She is too busy taking notes to look up.

Raphie goes to finish making coffee, and I shake my head slowly, thinking about why I’d said that. “No, Vicky just mentioned this morning, after frosting my brother’s ass, that you’d been shy as a kid. Then the penny dropped, and I hazarded a guess.” I smiled at her and winked at the distinctive grin of my lover as he returns with three mugs of coffee.

“But back to your question. And I’m sure Raph agrees, we prefer ‘queer’ to ‘homophile’ or ‘gay’, because ‘gay’ and particularly ‘homophile’ sound like we’re making excuses to straight people. They’re euphemisms for cocksuckers. That’s what little Mary Sunshine calls faggots. Basically, they’re used out of fear.”

“Fear, that some outspoken queer, like yourself, would hit them?”

“No, Jennette,” I sigh because of the misunderstanding. “I don’t go around willy-nilly beating people up. I use violence selectively to protect the few people I love. Predominantly, my man, here. And I have used it to protect my dad, Mack and Vicky.”

“Hmm, she told me about that. Actually, that was when I offered to defend you, should--”

I interrupt her, so I can finish my train of thought. “--I didn’t mean fear of me.” I pause, and she motions for me to continue. “What I mean is the fear of the naked truth getting out. People are calling themselves gay and believing that that makes it more acceptable to heterosexuals. That the sodomy laws all over this country no longer apply.

“They weren’t fucking each other in the ass; they were making gay love. That’s like saying that the Vietnam War isn’t illegal because it’s not a war but a conflict.” I grin sarcastically, and Raph sputters, nodding in agreement.

“Everybody is so fucking obsessed with being something they aren’t, that they’re losing track of reality.” I sip the strong, black coffee and shake my head. “Nope, we don’t say we’re queer out of any lack of self respect, it’s because there’s just no other way to make some people understand that we don’t give a shit whether they approve or not.”

Jennette grins. “I take your point. Sometimes it is hard to get through to people. Especially in a state where homosexuality is vehemently illegal and bestiality is not.”

“You are joking.” Raphaël expresses his resentment, I keep mine quiet. “Are you saying that I go to prison if I fuck Dan, but it’s alright to hump my next-door neighbor’s poodle?”

“That is exactly what I am saying.” Jennette grins roguishly and sips her coffee, nodding approval to Raph. “Damn, this is good.”

“Guess they didn’t finish reading Leviticus.” I concur. “But it does sort of redefine ‘cat house’, doesn’t it.”

They chuckle and nod. Then Jennette gets back to business. “Dan, tell me about your feelings for Mack. And did he readily reciprocate?”

“When things started, back when Raph and I were in eighth grade, Mack, who was two years older than us, initiated things with a kiss. That was at a school-play cast party at Vicky’s. Then it was like a series of dares ending in a blow job.

I pause for a deep breath. “After he came, he had to go immediately, leaving me with a boner and just a little frustrated. He wouldn’t let me walk him home. And we had to limit seeing each other to the breaks between classes and our lunch hour at school.”

“Was it more of a sexual attraction or affection?” She has to switch ballpoints, when the one she is using runs out of ink.

“Definitely more of a sexual attraction. First of all, discovering that I’m not the only queer on the planet was a relief. And secondly, there was a problem with his lack of commitment. I was only allowed to go to his house twice, when his parents were down on the farm in Arkansas. Even at church, we didn’t usually sit together.”

“Can you recall how many times you had sex with Mack?”

“Yeah, five times in three years.” I’m not sure why she needs to know this.

“And how many times did you ejaculate inside him?”

“Twice. The second time we had sex and the last time.”

“And when was the last time?

“Less than five minutes before he shot himself.” I feel Raph come up behind me, resting his hands lightly on my shoulders.

“Oh god, Dan, did you see him do it?”

“No. After we’d finished having sex. He’d asked me not to hate him, and told me to leave. When I hesitated, he threatened me with his .38 Smith and Wesson.

“Needless to say, I left in a hurry. I was in the alleyway behind the garage when I heard the shot.

“Why do you have to know this?” Raph is massaging my shoulders and I can feel his tears dropping onto my neck and running down my back under the loose fitting sweats. It’s oddly soothing. He seems to be shedding my tears for me. I no longer have any left.

“It’s one possible defense strategy. We can say that he was attracted to you, but you never reciprocated. And out of frustration, he committed suicide. But since there may be evidence of penetrative sex on the day he died, that line of defense might not be possible. We’ll have to get a copy of the autopsy report.”

Raph squeezes my shoulders in approval, as I pull out my wallet. He reaches over and gives Jennette the envelope. "Dan got a suicide note." It feels as if I’m becoming more detached from what is happening around me, as if the wallet and note are no longer mine, as if they are just stage props.

She looks up from her stenography "May I keep it, or should I make a Photostat?" and unfolds it to read.

“I think you should keep it on file. To tell the truth, I’m more than happy to get rid of it.”

She starts reading, being drawn into the torment. It never ceases to amaze me what an impact this note has. The first thing, that is glaringly apparent, is how structured it is. Although everyone interprets it as a desperate last cry for help, and admittedly that was also my own first impression. Having given it some thought though, and after having talked to Don, I have to agree that he sought the only logical conclusion to his life.

His parents forced him to drop out of high school in his senior year just short of graduation, to join the Army. They are of the opinion that too much education is the tool of Satan.

They refused to let him ever date girls. And they refused to let him visit with other guys.

They misused him mentally and physically in the name of god. Starting when he was four, his father sexually abused him and then inserted his mother's hot curling iron into the boy's rectum to cleanse away sin.

When he started to have wet dreams, his parents made him sleep with a metal spike stuck up his dick, so that he wouldn't unnecessarily spill his seed. When they suspected him of 'touching' himself in his sleep, they handcuffed him to the bedstead. His parents were being instructed by god; there was no other way.

Mack was given a medical discharge from the military, due to homosexual psychosis. Since he feared returning home 'not having become a man', he had spent three weeks on the streets of Wrightstown, New Jersey, just outside Fort Dix, being any soldiers' whore in exchange for food. But his Savior appeared in a dream and told him to return to his loving parents.

During the two nights prior to his death, Jesus had instructed him to 'come home' and to take me with him. He wrote that no matter how much he loved Jesus, he loved me too much to send me to Hell, since I was not a real believer and would certainly burn for eternity. He would give me another chance to be saved.

Being instructed by his loving and living god, on the afternoon of Monday, the 12th of September 1966, Mack Bottemly Jr., lying on his back with his knees drawn to his chest inserted the six-inch barrel of an unregistered Smith and Wesson .38 Special into his rectum and pulled the trigger with his thumbs.

Jennette is not moving. She is devoid of facial expression. Her voice is husky when she asks Raph for another cup of coffee, "And can you put something in it?"

"I've got something better. How about a cup of tea?"

“What kind of tea?

“Maree Dar Jane.”